


Adjusting

by ancalime8301



Series: Spencer Stories [31]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:27:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson returns home after his encounter with Henry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adjusting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/)**watsons_woes** Amnesty prompt: _05\. Random play: Put your MP3 player on shuffle, turn on the radio, or otherwise tune into a random stream of music. Use the fifth song in the playlist as your inspiration._  
>  The song I ended up with was <"<https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/8211516/Innisfree%20Ceoil_Celtic%20Airs%20-%20Volume%201_14_The%20Banks%20Of%20My%20Own%20Lovely%20Lee.mp3>">Innisfree Ceoil, The Banks of My Own Lovely Lee (mp3)</a> (from the Celtic Airs album)

One month after my abduction, I was finally allowed to go home. I chafed at the delay toward the end, but I understood that my doctors wanted to be certain I would not immediately relapse. And there was the small matter of being able to stand and walk on my own; thanks to the broken toes and the twisted ankle, that was not a possibility at first.

Holmes hovered anxiously behind me as I trudged up the stairs to our rooms, gingerly grasping the handrail with my bandaged hand. He had brought my cane to me, but the wraps on my hands were too bulky to hold it just yet. I intended to remedy that the next time I changed my dressings, though the matter of the splinted fingers would not be solved quite so easily.

I paused for a moment as I entered the sitting room, trying to ignore the unbidden thought that I had last seen the room when I was being shoved out of it. That dark memory rose rapidly before me and it almost took physical effort to push it away.

"Watson?" Holmes asked worriedly.

I took a deep breath and paused for a moment to appreciate that I could do so, despite the lingering ache in my ribs. "It's nothing. Tired, is all."

He graciously allowed the lie to rest unchallenged. "Then sit down, by all means. Would you like me to light your pipe?"

"Please."

I settled in my armchair, Holmes gave me my pipe, Spencer jumped into my lap, and for a little while I felt quite at peace. Any thoughts of what happened I firmly quashed, reassuring my fearful memory that Henry was dead, shot with my revolver in Holmes' hand, and nothing was going to harm me.

Then my pesky mind reminded me that I was going to require help doing the most basic of tasks, even dressing and shaving, until my fingers finished healing. In a hospital bed, it seems reasonable for help to be given with such things; once you are home, however, it feels quite awkward and unwelcome. I suddenly dreaded the next meal, when Holmes would have to cut my food--but at least I could still manage the silverware well enough to feed myself.

While attempting to quash the irritation with my limitations, I noticed Holmes lurking at the edge of my vision. "What?" I demanded rather harshly. "I can smoke without help."

"You've let your pipe go out," Holmes said.

He was right, and that vexed me even more. I sighed and dropped it onto the small table beside me, feeling myself fall into a sulk and inclined to just let it happen. Spencer nudged my arm with his head and I resumed petting him; he was fortunate that I could do so even with my hands in their sorry state.

Holmes said nothing, no doubt observing that platitudes would only make things worse. Instead, he fetched his violin and, after briefly checking the instrument's tuning, he started playing something gentle and melodic.

It was soothing in all the ways my wounded pride needed, and carried Holmes' wordless assurance that he would help me in any way necessary, just as I have helped him. I suspected that would serve as Holmes' penance for his failure in allowing me to be abducted, though I held him blameless in that and claimed responsibility for going about the rooms unarmed. The argument had occurred several times while I was still in my hospital bed, and it seemed likely to pop up again a few more before we let it rest, each of us determined to blame ourselves.

But at least I was there to argue about whose fault it was. And that I owed entirely to Holmes.


End file.
